


Heart Off Guard

by waltwhitmans



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M, otp: wait that's my word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltwhitmans/pseuds/waltwhitmans
Summary: They went to dinner, saw movies, biked around the city, watched the river lights. Chasten was more and more comfortable there, every time Peter opened the door for him.Four dates and an election.
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Heart Off Guard

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this fic I thought it would be finished by the Iowa caucus. I was wrong.

_ September 5th _

Chasten ignored protocol and texted Peter the second he was alone in his friend's spare bedroom. He didn't know who made it a rule to not call or text right away after a first date but he could only assume that they had been on some really lousy dates. Four hours earlier he had driven away from what was, quite possibly, the best first date he'd ever had. He wasn't confident enough to say that to Peter, though. He didn't want to come on too strong, after a beer, a baseball game, and a kiss that was clearly rooted more in enthusiasm than experience.  _ Made it to Michigan, _ he wrote.  _ I had a great time and I'd love to see you again.  _

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. The reply came just a minute later, making him jump.  _ Are you doing anything next weekend? _

He wasn't. Laundry and coursework could wait. Seven days seemed long enough to get ready for a second date with the mayor who seemed kind of perfect. Long enough to examine their conversation, and the way Peter talked to the people of his city, and think about his deep blue eyes and shy smile. The way he looked after the kiss, like something inside him had just woken up.  _ I'm yours, _ Chasten wrote, then deleted.  _ I'm free. I'll call you on Monday when I get back to Chicago. _

_ I look forward to it. _

Peter was good at flirting over text, but not great. He was much more charming in person or while FaceTiming. But imagining him, on his couch, or on the porch, or in his bed, smiling at his phone and trying to find the right words, it made something in Chasten's chest twist. 

For all of Labor Day weekend, during the cookout, the bonfires, the fishing and hiking, Chasten didn't say a word about Peter. It was too early to say anything; he would have felt like he was risking a jinx on something that wasn't completely off the ground. And it was fun to have a little secret, to wait until he was alone to send Peter a picture of Lake Michigan or the Dunes, wait for his response. Peter, in turn, sent pictures of South Bend: the river lights near where they kissed, a sunset from his yard, dogs he met while out on a run. He was so proud of his city. 

Eight days after the first date, Chasten was in another rented car, making the turn off I-90, getting on Exit 77, and navigating the traffic circles until he passed the _Welcome to South Bend_ sign. He remembered how to get to Peter's house from there: two lefts, a right, then straight. Peter was waiting for him on the porch. It occurred to Chasten, as he was cutting the engine and getting out of the car, that he wasn't sure what kind of greeting Peter was expecting. Another kiss? A handshake was too formal but maybe a kiss was too forward. There wouldn't be another "howdy" moment. 

In the end, Peter went in for a loose hug and Chasten obliged. If that was what he wanted, it was fine. And he smelled good. "The reservation is for seven," he said, when they had stepped apart. "We should get going."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Well, as mayor, one of my many responsibilities is to keep tabs on the city's restaurant scene. I take it seriously."

"That must be so hard for you." 

The restaurant was a taqueria close enough to the river that they could hear the water rushing, near the East Race that Peter was so fond of. They sat outside; for a late summer evening the weather was remarkably nice, less humid than the week before and with a gentle breeze. The beers came ice cold with slices of lime in the mouth of the bottle. "I like sitting outside," Chasten said. "People watching is infinitely entertaining."

"Usually people don't come up to talk to me while I'm eating. But we'll see."

Peter shielded his lime slice with his hand as he squeezed it down the neck of his beer bottle. "I'm really glad you're here," he said. 

"I'm really glad you asked me back." 

Over lengua tacos and chicharrons, they caught up. Chasten told Peter more about his trip to Michigan; Peter filled Chasten in on his re-election campaign. His opponent was taking him to task on his proposal for public Wi-Fi hotspots in parks. "Sounds like she lacks imagination," Chasten said. 

"Since we're in public, I have no comment," Peter said. 

"Oh, sure." 

"I look forward to debating her before the election." 

"If I lived here, I'd vote for you," Chasten said. A bit of lettuce fell out of his taco. "And I'm not just saying that because we're on a date. You're really proud of this city."

"I am," Peter said. "Thank you." 

Peter insisted on paying, just like the week before, and he left a twenty percent tip. "You know what I'm in the mood for?" Chasten said. "Ice cream."

"There's a place a few blocks from here. They make it all on site, with all natural ingredients."

"Sold. Lay on, Macduff." 

They didn't hold hands on the walk to the ice cream place. That was okay. There were still plenty of people around, maybe Peter didn't want to try something and get interrupted by an angry constituent, or maybe he just wasn't ready for a public display of affection that was more public than by the river with no one else around. Peter put his hands in his pockets and Chasten let him gush a little about downtown renewal. Seeing him passionate about his city was very attractive.

Chasten paid for their ice cream cones - rocky road for himself, strawberry-vanilla swirl for Peter - and they sat on a bench outside. From a wine bar across the street, they could hear the frantic piano of "Rhapsody in Blue." "Wasn't that the song you played with the orchestra?" Chasten asked. He remembered from last week, of course, hearing that the guy you were on a date with played one of the most famous pieces of music ever composed with his city's symphony wasn't something a person would just forget. 

"Yeah, it was."

"You know I'm still not over you saying that."

Peter chuckled. "I'm just glad you didn't choke on your drink."

"Look, of all the guys I've ever dated, you're the only one with any musical ability. Sitting in with a symphony is another level completely." 

Peter didn't answer right away. Chasten had a moment of panic, wondering if mentioning his past boyfriends was a mistake; after a date and a half Peter was already outpacing those guys. He bit into his cone. But Peter was enthralled by the music. He was drumming his fingers on his thigh; no, not drumming, he was playing the piece just like he'd done on stage. Chasten watched his hand move, darting over imaginary keys. The music picked up, the drums coming in, the clarinet and horns talking back and forth. "Sorry," Peter said. "I get into it. I practiced for so long I dream this music."

"Don't apologize for being passionate about something," Chasten said. "It means you care." 

They sat on the bench for the rest of the song, finishing their ice creams. It got dark enough that the first few stars came out. As they walked back to the car, Peter told the story of George Gershwin writing "Rhapsody in Blue" in three weeks and being inspired by riding on the train. Chasten tilted his head to look up. This was a city where you could see the stars at night. It wasn't like that in Chicago.

"Next time, I'll drive," Peter said, as Chasten made the turn off the main road and started heading back to Peter's neighborhood. 

"Next time?"

Peter started stammering. "Well, I thought - I had a nice time, and - it's just -"

"Relax. There will definitely be a next time. After two dates that were basically perfect?"

"Perfect?"

"There were literal fireworks last week." 

Chasten walked with Peter to his front door. "You don't need to see me inside," he said, taking his keys out of his pocket.

"Maybe I want a little more time with you."

"Oh?" Peter said, his eyebrow rising just a tiny bit. "Time for what?"

"Time to kiss you goodnight," Chasten said. 

Peter's lips were slightly sticky, tasted faintly of strawberry. Chasten felt his upper lip scraped by Peter's stubble, but he didn't mind it. No one else was going to see him that night. 

"Rocky road," Peter said, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb. "I had a great time tonight."

"So did I."

"You think we can set something up for next weekend?" 

"Sure. I'll call you tomorrow." 

"I'll be here." 

Peter stayed on the porch until Chasten went around the corner and out of sight. Driving under the yellow beams of the streetlights, the traffic around him thin for a nice summer night, he wondered how deep he was already in it. 

\--

_ September 12th _

"The interesting thing is that there's no way out," Peter said. "At least not one we can see. That we're allowed to see."

They were standing in front of Edward Hopper's painting  _ Nighthawks, _ at the Art Institute. It was Peter's idea. He said, on the phone the day after the second date, that it had been too long since he'd been to Chicago. "Come visit," Chasten said. "I never get a chance to do the touristy stuff. We can go to the Field Museum and take pictures with Sue."

"Actually, I was thinking about the Art Institute," Peter said. "I haven't been in years. They have a beautiful collection, Picasso and Mary Cassatt and Van Gogh, and  _ Nighthawks, _ I love that painting." 

So there they were, standing in front of Edward Hopper's masterpiece. The bold colors of the diner and the patrons stood out against the grey wall the painting hung on. "They're trapped," Chasten said. He had done a little research, to look good in front of Peter. "In the diner and with themselves. They don't look happy, hunched over the counter. I feel like they're the last people on Earth."

"And the lights are so harsh. They look like they'd be more comfortable outside in the dark."

"It's so lonely," Chasten said. 

"Exactly," Peter replied. "They're all alone in a big city." 

They had all day and a vague desire to see everything, so they wandered. Peter was, apparently, an art lover. He had something to say about every work of art they stopped in front of. He mused on the textures of  _ The Bedroom at Arles, _ the tenderness of  _ The Child's Bath. _ He told Chasten the story of the house and subjects of  _ American Gothic, _ including a brief biography of Grant Wood. Chasten was content to let him gush. He'd been keeping it all to himself for so long. 

Peter was quiet when they got to Georgia O'Keeffe. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood in front of a painting of a bleached cow skull decorated with white roses. "These remind me of my grandmother," he said.

"Really?"

"Not in a morbid way. She lived in El Paso. We used to take road trips to visit her, when I was a kid. I used to see animal bones from the car as we drove into the desert." Peter paused. "She was very kind and loving and would not approve of me associating her memory with paintings like this."

"Of course." 

"Is there anything you want to see that we haven't gotten to yet?"

There was, a floor above them: Monet's  _ Water Lilies. _ "It's so calm," Chasten said. "And it looks, I don't know, soft? Like if I could put my hand inside the painting it would feel soft. It doesn't look like water. It kind of looks like a dream. If that makes any sense."

"It does." Peter studied the painting. "It's one moment in time, but it lasts forever." 

They ended up in the museum cafe, each with a cup of coffee. "I really enjoyed this," Peter said. "But there was one thing I didn't see."

"If we missed something, we can go back."

"It's not here, it was part of a traveling exhibition. This was years ago. It was a Renaissance painting of David - from the Bible. It was a scene from one of the Psalms, I don't remember which one. But it - I was only just starting to come out to myself back then, and I was struggling, and I saw myself." 

Chasten knew that Peter was religious but he wasn't sure he liked where this was going. "Yeah?" 

"Do you know it?"

"Can't say I do."

"Oh. Well." Peter cleared his throat. "So David is hiding from Saul in a cave, and he thinks there's an angry mob out to get him. So he's begging God for help, and then he realizes that he was always able to save himself. The glory of God was within him. And he shouts,  _ Awake, my soul! Awake, harp and lyre! I will awaken the dawn." _

"Is that how you felt when you - "

"I don't play the harp," Peter said. He was blushing. "But. Yes. Essentially. I felt like my soul was finally awake." 

The third date was as good a time as any for the first emotional moment. Chasten reached across the table and rested his hand on Peter's wrist. "When I came out I felt like I could stand up straight for the first time," he said. "The weight I'd been carrying my whole life was gone." 

"This year has been one of the toughest of my life," Peter said. "But one of the most satisfying, too." 

Chasten was aware of the time, the traffic going back to South Bend, that their coffees were going cold. He didn't particularly care. He could have sat there forever. 

\-- 

_ October 4th _

Chasten didn't see Peter for two weeks after the date at the museum. The weekend after he had to cram for his first exam of the year, and the weekend after that was Peter's mandatory one weekend a month with the Reserves. He had to drive from South Bend to Naval Station Great Lakes for two days of drills, meetings, and uniform wearing.  _ Sounds like fun, _ Chasten said in a text on Friday morning.  _ If you like military bureaucracy.  _

_ The wheels of Big Navy spin slowly, but they never stop. _

_ And you're going to keep doing this for the rest of your life, right?  _

The answer came a moment later.  _ Oh Chasten let me up out of this.  _

Two weeks was a long time, at the beginning of just getting to know someone. Long enough for Chasten to think about his next step. He was very careful as he weighed the possibilities. Peter was a catch. He was newly out, just starting to date; he wanted a husband and a family someday. It would be cruel to blindside him, if this thing they were doing kept going. Peter deserved the truth, and if he decided to go his own way after hearing it, so be it. 

Chasten made the drive to South Bend on the first cool day of the fall, arriving a few minutes before five. Peter was in a good mood. "I have something special for us," he said, greeting Chasten at the door with a dry peck on the mouth. "Come upstairs." 

The surprise was set up on the second floor balcony. Peter had set up a table and two chairs, a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I thought we could have a drink before dinner," he said. "This time of year the sun sets over the river."

Chasten sat down, let Peter uncork the wine and pour the glasses. He was an unabashed romantic. Another good reason to lay it all out. 

For the first glass the conversation was light: the weather, football,  _ Game of Thrones _ . Chasten began to work up the nerve during a lull, when they were both staring at the river across the street. "Peter," he said. "There's something I should tell you."

"Wait, before you say anything, can I tell you something?"

"What?"

Peter refilled both glasses. "We've been seeing each other for a little over a month, and talking for a month before that," he said. "You must know that you're not the only guy I've been talking to. But you're the only one that's had me obsessively checking my phone to see if you had texted. The only one I've missed as soon as you were gone. So I deleted all my dating profiles." 

"Peter," Chasten said.

"I know it must sound like a huge leap, but I'm old enough to know what I want in a partner, and I've waited long enough."

"Peter."

"I also know that this is kind of a lot to dump on you, and I don't want you to do anything because you think I want you to. I don't."

"Peter." Chasten reached over and grabbed his wrist. "Listen to me. Listen to me. Are you listening?" 

"Are you okay?"

"There's something you need to know. So just listen." He let go of Peter. "I'm not saying this to scare you off or anything. You're a nice person and I like you and you deserve honesty. I'm going to be honest with you."

"I'm listening." 

Chasten drained his glass, set it on the table. "I came out when I was eighteen and it was so bad at home that I took off and lived in my car for a few months. I've been in abusive relationships. Physical, verbal. I've been sexually abused. I've spent the last ten years of my life struggling, and scraping by, and thinking that love wasn't going to happen. I built up a wall. I spent the last few years not getting close to anyone. I'm broken, and you aren't. You just came out, you've got your whole life ahead of you to find someone. You deserve to be happy."

"You don't think you deserve it?" Peter asked. 

"I've tried. Maybe it's not for me."

Peter was quiet for a moment. The light from the setting sun glinted off his hair, in his eyes. His expression was inscrutable, but unless Chasten was mistaken, for a second he looked so sad. "Thank you for telling me," he said, finally. "It must have been hard. Thank you." 

"Did you really delete all your profiles?"

"All of them. None of the others measured up to you. It wasn't even close."

"If we're going to keep doing this, make it serious, I didn't want to surprise you." Chasten picked up the wine bottle, poured the rest into his glass. "I think we're going to need another bottle for the rest of this conversation."

"You don't have to tell me everything tonight."

"I'm okay." 

"Do you want to go inside or do you want to sit here?"

"I want to sit here," Chasten said, so they did, without saying a word until the sun had fully set.

It was too late for the dinner Peter had planned - steaks on the grill - so they ordered pizza and ate it in the living room, in front of the TV. Even after two slices Chasten was starting to feel the wine go to his head. When he stood up to put his plate in the sink, he stumbled. "I shouldn't drink before dinner," he said. "It's in my bloodstream already." 

"I'll set up the guest room."

"You don't need to do that." 

"You shouldn't drive," Peter said. It was a statement of fact and a request for peace of mind. "Please."

Chasten said okay. When he was ready for bed, too tired to stay awake, he followed Peter back up the stairs to the guest room, down the hall from Peter's room, and watched him put sheets and a duvet on the bed. "If you need anything, I'm here," he said.

"Okay."

"You think you'll be able to sleep?"

"I'll be fine." 

Peter didn't move. He was hesitating. Maybe he wanted something: to ask a question about their conversation. Chasten waited. "Well," Peter said. "Goodnight. I'll see you in the morning."

Chasten fell asleep quickly; the house was quiet, the sheets soft. He woke up in the middle of the night and stared at the wall until his eyes adjusted to the dark. He couldn't quite articulate to himself what was bothering him enough to wake him. It wasn't until he rolled over and remembered where he was that it occurred to him. He got out of bed, went down the hall, opened the door to Peter's bedroom. Peter didn't wake up until Chasten was sliding under the sheets. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Do you need something?"

"Just this." 

It was raining in the morning when Chasten woke up. Peter was lying on his stomach, arms crossed under his pillow, looking at him. "Good morning," he said. "You slept a long time. It's almost ten."

"When did you wake up?"

"Around eight."

"And you've been watching me sleep for two hours? Creep."

Peter smiled. "How do you feel?"

"Physically? Not bad."

"I was thinking brunch."

"Did you want to ask me something last night?"

Peter frowned. "I don't know if I should."

"You can ask me about anything. I laid it all out for you."

"It's not that. I wanted to - I wanted to ask if I could hug you. But I didn't know if you wanted to be touched. You seemed kind of raw last night."

"I was. I am. But you can touch me. I'm not that fragile, I won't shatter."

Peter slid his hand out from under his pillow and, so gently Chasten couldn't feel it at first, touched his face, his neck. "See," Chasten said. "The world is still turning." 

"I guess it is."

Peter insisted on making breakfast. "Before I forget," he said, over bacon and scrambled eggs, "I wanted to ask you last night. You mentioned you were taking a survey course on Victorian literature."

"Yeah, just to fill a credit hour."

"I have a collection of short stories that I used in college. You can borrow it if you want." 

"Sure," Chasten said, and thought nothing more about it. Peter went upstairs and brought the book, and the conversation moved on. 

It wasn't until Chasten was back in his apartment, after promising to call Peter later in the week to make plans for the next weekend, that he sat down at his desk and flipped through the book. A scrap of paper fluttered out from between the pages and landed on the floor. Chasten picked it up, unfolded it. He read it a few times before he realized what he was looking at. Peter had written out, in his unmistakable left-handed chicken scratch, a poem. 

_ But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, _

_ And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart— _

_ Open to me! _

_ For I will show you the places Nobody knows, _

_ And, if you like, _

_ The perfect places of Sleep. _

Chasten pulled his phone out of his pocket, called Peter. "Hi. Did you forget something here?"

" _ I'll sing you the jacinth song of the probable stars, I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, until I find the Only Flower, which shall keep (I think) your little heart while the moon comes out of the sea _ ," Chasten said. "I love Cummings. How did you know?"

"I didn't. It came to me this morning. Chasten, I - I'm not scared by what you told me. I couldn't be scared by anything about you. I want things to be good for you, and I want to be good to you."

"You are," Chasten said. 

"I'll be here as long as you let me."

Chasten thanked Peter for his understanding, and for the poem, and promised again to call later in the week to make plans. After he ended the call he stared at the poem in his hand and wondered how this man had appeared at exactly the right time. 

\--

_ October 29 _

"I never knew so many people could have so many opinions about roundabouts," Chasten said, as they crossed the street. "But I guess that's the beauty of municipal politics." 

"You have no idea. The other day I went into Safeway for milk and I had a woman talk my ear off about fire hydrants."

A lesser man would have stayed in his office and sent underlings out to do the dirty work. Peter was nowhere near it. He was glad to walk the streets of his city and talk to his constituents to learn what they wanted. Even if they wanted to yell at him about roundabouts. Chasten had to see it for himself. He'd lived in Chicago for years and never seen Rahm Emanuel in person. When Peter invited him to go canvassing, on a gorgeous bluebird day a week before the election, he jumped at the chance. 

"He did say he would vote for me," Pete said, as they walked over dry leaves on the sidewalk to the next house. "So that's good."

"I think he just had to get that off his chest." 

"That's what I'm here for."

They had been on dates between the night Chasten had laid it all out and this afternoon on the West Side, all of which had been very nice and romantic and neither of them mentioned anything that they had spoken about that night. Which was fine. Peter probably needed time to acclimate, and Chasten would rather put his hand in a meat grinder than talk about it more before he was ready. They went to dinner, saw movies, biked around the city, watched the river lights. Chasten was more and more comfortable there, every time Peter opened the door for him.

At the next house, a woman with a baby and a toddler wanted to know what the city was doing to maintain public parks. Peter explained the municipal budget and highlighted the changes that the Parks department had already made to keep public spaces beautiful and safe, high-fived the toddler, and let the baby grab his finger. "Another mark in your column," Chasten said. "If you weren't gay she would have been all over you."

"People are proud of the parks." 

They kept going for another block, knocking on doors so Peter could ask for criticism on issues he had no control over. Chasten began keeping a mental tally of the funniest ones: the one who accused Pete of being a CIA spook, the one who yelled at him through her screen door about storm drains, the one who had an intelligent conversation with Pete about downtown revitalization before revealing that he knew it was all funded by George Soros and the lizard people. It was eye-opening. 

"So," Chasten said. At the end of the block there was a small park with an empty bench, which they collapsed onto. "Mayor Pete, how is the state of the city?"

"You may not believe this, but I've heard stranger." 

"I don't doubt it. How much more do you want to do?"

"We can get down to Colfax Avenue and hit St. Joseph Street before I have to get back to the office. Maybe get a quick lunch somewhere in between." Peter looked at his watch. "It's almost noon."

"And I've got all my steps in for the day."

"Good." Peter looked around them, then back at Chasten. "I was thinking earlier - it's our two month anniversary."

"Is it?"

"Close enough. Our first date was August 27th."

"Huh." Chasten considered this. Two months with Peter had been happier and more meaningful than two years with one ex. "But we were talking on the phone and facetiming for a month before that. So this is our three month anniversary." 

"Are we going to debate on how long we've been dating?"

"I don't know, are we?"

"Chasten," Peter said. He looked like he was working out what we wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. "At the start of the year I was only out to a few people, I was alone, and I was so scared. I couldn't imagine myself in a relationship, getting close to anyone. But I made myself try. These past few months have been some of the happiest and most fulfilling of my life. You've shown me what's possible if you make a leap of faith."

"I - God, I don't know what to say. No one's ever said anything like that to me."

"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know." 

A breeze blew some leaves off the tree over them. "I know you're worried about being re-elected," Chasten said. "That people won't be able to get over you being gay. But, from my outsider perspective, everyone we've met today loves you. Even the weirdos with the conspiracy theories. None of them said they were going to vote for your opponent."

"The lizard people guy doesn't vote."

"Quit being an Eeyore. I've only known you for three months and even I can tell you that you're going to be re-elected. You're brilliant and you work hard for this city and people recognize that. That means a lot. I'm not going to stop being honest with you, Peter." 

"To whom much is given, much is required," Peter said.

"With great power comes great responsibility," Chasten replied. "I can quote things too, you know."

"The only way to prove that I can be re-elected is to be re-elected. I have a week left to make sure."

"Then let's stop talking about it and keep going." Chasten stood up. "Well? I can't even vote here and I'm all in."

"Is this how you give pep talks to your students?"

"My students aren't in charge of cities. Come on. I'll buy lunch if we get all these houses covered." 

Peter stood up. "I value your opinion," he said. "And more than that, your honesty." 

"Stick with me, kid," Chasten said, patting Peter on the back. "I'll take you places." 

\--

_ November 4 _

The morning after the election, Chasten woke up in a warm bed, under sheets that smelled like they'd dried in the sun, and he could hear birds sing outside the window, and nothing in the world bothered him at all. Peter wasn't there; he had to make the rounds through the morning news shows, and stop at the office to thank his staff, but he promised to swing back for breakfast before Chasten had to get going. Chasten looked at his watch: a few minutes before nine. He wouldn't have to wait too long. 

It had been about thirteen hours since Peter was officially re-elected. He worked for every one of those votes, even though at eighty percent he probably didn't have to. But he did anyway. He treated Election Day like a regular work day: voted first thing, gave a couple interviews, but went to his office and buckled down. Around six, staff and campaign volunteers started congregation, and they brought food and champagne for the inevitable victory. Chasten snagged an opportunity to take a picture of Peter, looking out the windows of his office to his city, the place he loved more than anywhere else in the world. He'd left it all on the field, and whatever came next was out of his hands. 

As they waited for the first returns to come in, Chasten poured two plastic cups of champagne and wove through the crowd, finding Peter sitting at his desk. "Don't tell me you're working," he said, perching on the edge of the desk and handing Peter a cup. "There's a party happening in front of you."

"I'm just taking it all in. It's been one hell of a term. This year has unfolded in ways I couldn't imagine."

"You're welcome."

Peter held up his cup. "To the city of South Bend," he said, tapping it against Chasten's. "And her rise from the grave."

"And to the mayor whose vision and drive revived her." 

By ten after eight, it was quite clear that Peter's fears were unfounded. He had won by a margin so wide not even Chasten had considered it. The party made its way from the County-City Building to the West Side Democratic Club, where Peter made his speech and spoke to the reporters and shook every hand offered. The celebration didn't start winding down until after midnight. Chasten waited until Peter had finished thanking the volunteers before taking his keys out of his pocket. "You have to work tomorrow, Mister Mayor," he said. "I'll drive."

On the ride home, Peter explained his morning schedule and promised to come back before Chasten had to go. "You don't have to, if you're busy," Chasten said. "We can say goodbye before bed."

"I'd feel like I was taking advantage of you. You've done so much to help."

"It's not taking advantage if I say it's okay."

"Still." 

Chasten was spending the night. It was too late to drive back to Chicago, and he'd had a few drinks, and it just made sense for him to bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Peter had made the guest room bed for him, but standing in front of it again, wearing his pajamas, it didn't feel right. He was here on purpose, and his boyfriend won an election by a landslide, so sleeping in the guest room wasn't good enough. 

"I think we're ready for the next step," Chasten said, walking into Peter's room, finding him getting undressed. "Sleeping in the same bed on purpose."

"I don't want to -"

"Listen to my words. Look at what I'm doing." Chasten got under the covers. "See? Get over here." 

Peter got in bed, turned off the light. "Baby steps," Chasten said.

"Absolutely."

"I'll make you breakfast tomorrow."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." 

"You make me feel like I matter."

"You do the same for me."

Chasten fell asleep listening to the old house sigh and creak. When he could muster the motivation, he got up and went downstairs to put the coffee on. He sat down with his mug at the kitchen island, checked his phone. The morning show interviews were already showing up on Facebook. Peter would be back soon. He scrolled through the Tribune photos and found one of himself standing with Peter and some of the IUSB student volunteers. He noticed that he and the students were all looking at the camera, but Peter was looking at him. Chasten drank some coffee, thought about what he would make for breakfast. He sat there for a while before he realized that he was falling in love. 

\--

_ You are neither here nor there, _

_ A hurry through which known and strange things pass _

_ As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways _

_ And catch the heart off guard and blow it open. _

_ \- Seamus Heaney _


End file.
